


Will of the Spark to down the Moon

by BookOfXentric



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Scott McCall, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Possessive Behavior, i have no idea how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 01:31:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2833229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookOfXentric/pseuds/BookOfXentric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after 3B but before S4. Stiles faints in class because he hasn’t eaten anything. Scott takes him to the nurse. They argue and Scott asks what he has to do to get Stiles to eat something Stiles responds “Kiss me” and gets more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will of the Spark to down the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> I think I mentioned in an earlier fic that English is my fourth language and because I’ve been totally stressed out lately I wasn’t able to go over this fic for spelling and grammar errors as thoroughly as I wanted. Please don’t slaughter me.

**Quote of the fic:**  
 _“Seven is a triangle, three is an eight, one is an m and two is a heart, just like the question mark.”_   
\- Unknown (I know who said it but it’s a secret)

  
  
Coach claps his hand together resoundingly making sure to get the class’s attention. “Okay, Stilinski, up to the board and show me what you’ve got!” He is in an unusually fine mood today, maybe it’s the weather or maybe it’s the excitement of a new semester, a new lacrosse season, fresh back from the holidays.

He won’t tell anyone but his new years wish was for no more dead kids.

Stiles grins, he is more than happy to comply, he’s got this, he even wriggles his eyebrows at Scott who sends him a small supportive smile and with a humorous look of ‘you could just do it without the added drama’ inclines his head towards the front and whispers “Get to it.”

“Hurry up, Stilinski.” Coach calls.

However, the moment Stiles almost throws himself from his desk is a heartbeat by which the board goes blurry and blood rushes through his ears like a raging swell as everything around seems to slow to a stand still. Darkness well up in the peripheries of his vision and his body goes limp as that blackness conquers reality, drowns out his classmates, the classroom, his thoughts and everything. That allusion about the wave isn’t cliché for nothing.

Stiles has no memory of the arm that shoots out to catch him before his hits the floor. He doesn’t know the cries and shouts that ring around the room as he falls. He doesn’t remember Scott kneeling on the floor holding him securely nor Coach lightly patting his cheek telling him to wake up, asking his friends if he’s okay and commenting on his still slightly malnourished body.

Nor does he in any form, way or function recall Lydia’s well thought through excuse for the atrophied state of his body. Ok, it’s not _that_ bad but it is in no way in a good condition either. Had he been conscious he would have felt a touch put down at how easily everyone swallowed the excuse hook, line and sinker, even though the excuse was obviously miles better than telling the truth.

They had talked excuses –since some more perceptive yet tactless people were bound to ask- and come up with something about a blood disease but they had never fully decided on whatever to use it or not, or come up with something better.

He also doesn’t remember Scott gathering him up and hoisting him, bridal-style, into his arms before setting off to the nurse’s office. Stiles’ bruised ego should be very thankful for not having to recall that; once he comes to it is going to be busy enough with the embarrassment of having fainted in class. His ego doesn’t need to know he was carried away from the scene like some damn damsel.

Nor does he have any recollection of the myriad of whispers –along the lines of “Seriously, McCall is strong.” and the like- running through the classroom or the querying, curious and somewhat impressed looks of the people they passed in the hall.

Because Stiles wakes up on a mattress so hard his fuzzy brain momentarily thinks it’s a slab, blinking oddly at the fluorescent lighting in the ceiling above. He knows this position so the first words passing his lips are “I fainted, didn’t I?” He asks more for confirmation than actual enquiry and raises himself on his elbows to get a better view.

Scott, seated at the foot of the bed, just hums in response. “Have any idea why?” He asks evenly and Stiles detects just a note of danger in the otherwise concerned tone. Or well, maybe it’s more a stern disapproving than dangerous but it still births a tiny, short-lived twinge in Stiles’ heart. It’s not more than a minute pinprick of guilt that sucks out and dies quickly but it’s there either way.

Stiles pulls himself up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, he busies himself with the move because he knows the probable answer but doesn’t want to admit it. He takes it easy though because he doesn’t want a repeat of the fainting spell and he’s pretty sure Scott’s not interested in a da-capo either.

“…no.” He’s lying and he knows Scott knows that. Scott doesn’t even have to be a werewolf with mindboggling lycanthropic superpowers to know that. Because Stiles is a crap liar…or, well, he is a master at it in his own way, he likes telling half lies, stories that are partially true just with some of the more compromising details either removed or substituted for something less incriminating. Stiles is good at BSing stuff but there is no half-lie or ornamented truth to save his fine ass this time.

“Seriously, Stiles.” Scott reprimands. “I swear there are werewolves in Vegas who can hear your grumbling stomach!”

“Why would a werewolf go to Vegas?” He means the question; he always does, even though he doesn’t always mean to say them out loud. The questions just show up in his head and then his brain-to-mouth filter malfunctions and they pop out his mouth like whole reptilians. His mom told him once that he kept ‘popping frogs’. Stiles had asked what she meant by that because it sounded kinda gross, like frog torture, and been told that when his mom was a child she had been told by her parents that when you say something you didn’t necessarily mean to say it’s said a frog leaped from your mouth. It’s a sort of cousin to the Freudian slip he guesses and just babbles on “With all the lights and smells and sounds! Not even I want to go to Vegas! I think it would be too much for me, I think my brain would short-circuit. You know, sensory overload! Too much people, too many lights and sounds, too many impressions to process, too many distractions… the thought makes me panicky,” he can’t help but to shudder at the thought of densely populated areas “so I can’t imagine why a werewolf, with wolfy senses, would want put themselves through a trip to Veg—”

“Stiles!”

His mouth snaps shut. He knows he’s supposed to be quiet, especially when Scott’s eyes flashes red at him for second. Scott’s very person just sort of demands respect these days; it’s something about his demeanour… or maybe Alphas emit some aura of reverence that pack members naturally respond to… but sometimes a flash of red is needed to drive the message through.

Scott waves his hand firmly at Stiles, with a sort of up-down sweeping motion, as if pointing out the fragile and weak state of his body by signalling attention to the thin shoulders and skinny waist. As if Stiles didn’t already know. “Stiles, you can’t afford to forget to eat! The cafeteria served Bratwurst today; you should have had some of tha—”

“I know! It’s not like I did it on purpose!” he defends himself “Who forgets something on purpose? Forgetting is unintentional, purpose is intent.” It’s not like he isn’t working on it but malnutrition isn’t something you fix overnight, it has to be done in a healthy and safe way. “Focus isn’t really my forte to begin with, even with the Adderall, which is clearly a starvation enabler, it’s just making recovery harder, cuz’ you know, it’s an appetite suppressant and—” he finds himself with the very same hand firmly planted over his mouth to halt the constant stream of explanations. It remains there, closed over his lips until he stops talking.

Scott sighs and his head drops a notch. “What do I have to do to get you to eat something?”

“Kiss me.”

Scott just blinks and Stiles knows he’s managed to turn the table, divine move and all that shit, Stiles’ got him now. Sometimes that malfunctioning filter works to his advantage. “Just one little peck on the lips, Scotty…” he teases “Completely platonic, if you want.”

The look Scott gives him is a combination of a lot things; exasperation, resignation and humour are all there, they’re the most obvious and compelling but there’s also an almost indeterminable flicker of something more authoritative, something that wasn’t there a year ago but now make daily appearances.

Stiles flashes an impish glint at his bothered friend. “You know I find this entire assertive, respect imposing, self-sacrificing Alpha male heroism you’ve got going on very attractive.” As always he hides the admission behind a joking tone. He isn’t lying he’s just wrapping the truth up nice and tight in a protective layer of humour and sarcasm, partially hoping Scott won’t catch on.

They sit there at the edge of the bed and stare at each other. Stiles glints up through his eyelashes which somehow enhances the impish expression and Scott’s half blank, looking a little like a confused puppy trying to process a problem that’s way over its head. Scott’s a regular visitor to Confusion Land _‘the most bamboozling theme park you’ll ever frequent’_ but at least he’s not the driver of the crazy train, that’s Stiles’ unfortunate profession, though it makes Stiles feel somewhat better to think that Lydia is most likely the conductor.

Beacon Hills is the crazy train. Stiles feels like according to the passengers -the population of Beacon Hills High- he’s the current driver, Scott and Kira are working the switchboard, Lydia is the conductor and Malia is the crazy hitchhiker in the bathroom. It’s all fine and dandy, really… expect… there’re no tracks and the train’s system has been hacked by the Nemeton.

It’s all out of control. Their lives are out of control… they are out of control.

Scott looks like he still hasn’t gotten off _‘Bewilderment, the rollercoaster ride that will leave your mind wiped clean’_ yet and Stiles sighs inwardly. Scott’s adorable when he can’t think of a way to respond to one of Stiles’ leaps but sometimes Stiles wishes Scott would just get off his ass and _do something_ , say something, he’d like some feedback.

But no such luck…

Stiles gets up and dusts of his pants, smoothing out a few wrinkles for no reason at all other than to busy his itching hands with something “Well, I guess we should get back to class—!” He immediately finds himself backed up against the wall as Scott rounds on him, slamming his palm down right next to Stiles’ head with a resounding smack that makes Stiles’ breath hitch and he instinctively screws his eyes shut.

This hiccup in time doesn’t last long, though and when he opens his eyes and breaths: “Plagiarizing a page from The Great Book of Derek, huh?” Scott is bracketing him against the wall, hands planted flat on the wall on either side of Stiles’ head.

Scott’s brows are furrowed but his dark eyes intense and voice levelled “Will it make you shut up and eat something?”

Stiles doesn’t have the time to answer, Scott’s lips are on his before he knows it and gone just as fast. It’s not a light, girly peck it’s quick as a flash but yet somewhat firm and mannish. It’s so fast that if it wasn’t for the residual cushioned tingle it leaves on his lips, he would have thought it didn’t even happen. That it was simply a cruel conspiracy between the hellish fluorescent lighting and the air-conditioner. Normal everyday objects like that always had a tendency to work against him, as if it was their mission of existence to fuck-up his day. Every morning since he was five years old he’d had to battle his worst enemy the shower curtain in an epic showdown between his naked flailing body and the poltergeist polyester that either attempted to strangle him or slicked itself to his body like a disturbing second layer of skin, which was one of the most disturbing sensations he had ever experienced.

But this is different since Stiles is pretty sure his heart jumps a beat at the touch of their lips to each other and stops there. It’s like his body forgets to breathe or maybe it thinks that if it does the moment will be lost forever, the delicate tingle lost to the oxygen filling and leaving his lungs. Expelling the air would be like throwing it away.

Stiles reaches up and touches his lips gingerly as if he thinks his fingers will be able to pick up on the lingering feeling of Scott’s firm peck, or hold it in. His fingers a prison to keep the moment confined.

Scott stares at him, or ‘stares’ is the wrong word, Scott watches him, gauges with barely contained curiosity as if he’s picking each of Stiles’ movements apart and trying to give them reason. He raises an eyebrow, tilting his chin up and just a hint of an expression of pride ghosts over his face. “What’s wrong?” he sounds pleased and sure of himself.

“—I never thought you’d actually do it…” Stiles breathes and he’s pretty darn sure Scott fights a smirk at his words.

“It’s what you wanted isn’t it?” It was funny how Scott’s questions could come out sounding like half questions half statements. There was something Socratic about it. A maieutic way of coaxing the truth out and Stiles wonders if Scott has recently learned that tactic or if it was yet another thing that came naturally to an Alpha when dealing with a pack member.

Scott’s always been the unwavering one, ever since they were little kids. He was the one of them that would never give in. Stiles was impulsive and a creative idea-canon but he didn’t have Scott’s stubborn resoluteness and hell-bent determination. Stiles was the one who came up with all the stupid stunts they pulled but Scott was the one who decided whatever to go through with them or not, if Scott put his foot down and said ‘No’ Stiles usually didn’t press the matter.

Scott was solid in that way and it made Stiles feel safe.

The wall is suddenly looming painfully obvious behind him as Scott shifts his weight and moves a few inches closer. “You liked that, didn’t you.” It seems Scott has thrown Socrates and his maieutics out the window because he smirks as he snakes a rouge hand under Stiles’ shirt and traces strong fingers down the spine in a hot trail before leaving his palm to rest confidently on the small of Stiles’ back.

“Oh, Gods!” Stiles squeaks out with a breath barely a note from a gasp and bites back a moan at the feeling of Scott’s long fingers dancing assuredly over his skin before settling secured in the small crock of his back, just holding him there. Why had he never noticed how large Scott’s hands were? How powerful? How that warm, sure hand on his side seemed to fit so perfectly right where it was. Why hadn’t he seen the wide chest, broad shoulders and muscular arms before and seriously when did Scott grow that much taller?

Stiles’ body had always lacked the definition found on Scott’s because -while Scott plucks the fruit from his father’s tree- Stiles takes after his mother; he has her eyes, her hair, her fair skin, long neck and slender built.

As children he had been smaller –in 3rd grade he’d gotten in a fistfight with Jackson because Jackson had called him petit- but in freshman year he’d had a growth spurt and outgrown Scott by an inch or two. Even so people had always viewed Stiles as the smaller of the two and they continued to do so… and now it appeared Scott had both caught up and passed him in the height race. Or maybe it was Stiles who had reduced in size. Stupid Nogitsune. Or perhaps it was some sort of optic illusion or maybe it was a werewolf thing but Scott sure seemed taller like this: using his body as a gentle, poised cage to pin Stiles to the wall. One hand holding Stiles secured at the waist, directing him, the other positioned flat 90° against the wall beside Stiles’ head, effectually trapping him but not forcefully.

He settles on begging for optical illusion; because, seriously, would the universe have something against it? Could it not handle an Alpha who was an inch or so shorter than his Pack? Sure, Kira would never even come close to beating Scott in height. The day Kira outgrows Scott is the day Stiles replaces all his dad’s squad cars with shaved, orange painted kangaroos’ and persuades the entire town to act as if it’s a completely everyday occurrence. Can you imagine the sight outside the office? All those shaved, orange kangaroos’ jumping around with their ‘much ado about nothings’ flashing… can you charge a kangaroo with indecent exposure? It’s naked! Or does the paint count as clothing?

Harrods doesn’t count bodypaint as clothing so they’re probably nude. But Harrods is in the UK so maybe it’s different—

Damn it, brain.

It doesn’t escape Stiles that this position is similar to that of a jock hitting on pretty girl in one of those God damn teen movies and had Stiles been a girl he figures he would have found this particular setting a teeny, tinny touch threatening… or maybe threatening is the wrong word, unsettling feels more right, yeah, that’s it ‘unsettling’ but Stiles isn’t a girl and he finds this setting feeling _juuuuuust right_. It’s nice, much better than the lumpy mattress and its hard bouncy springs sharply cutting into the soft underside of his thighs…

Even if it’s Scott and he’s never been attracted to Scott like this before. Sure he finds several things –both visual and character traits- about Scott attractive but he’s never really been _attracted_ to him, romantically or sexually. There’s a difference between aesthetic appreciation and disposition vs. something more intimate. But now the sensation of being pinned against the wall by Scott’s body leaves him sweltering in his own heat.

They’re so close; Stiles can see Scott’s muscles ripple with every minute move under the tight shirt he’s wearing, a premonition of the power and definition underneath and it’s unbearably hot to think about all the power Scott has yet holds back.

Scott leans in further pressing his nose into Stiles’ neck, nuzzling there as if he scenting. And that very notion spins this pack thing into a whole other dimension. He traces Stiles’ carotid artery with his nose, following and breathing in the flow of beating blood rushing through the vessel ‘til his nose jams in the juncture where neck meets ear and jaw.

He pulls back as if getting caught had interrupted the purpose of his endeavour.

Through it all Stiles’ bites his lip to keep the sounds of choked delight contained and it’s not an easy thing to do. He watches as Scott sniffs at the air, eyes closed, as if he picks up on some other scent; probably that of a smouldering pot of boiling teenage hormones, before settling his gaze back on Stiles.

Stiles rakes his eyes all over Scott’s face and upper body, feeling a beat of heat course through him every time Scott flexes a muscles, while Scott does not move his gaze from Stiles’ lips at all. Something about that dead-set gaze is primal; preying like an animal clawing and slitting its way to the surface, yet it remains so very human.

There’s another beat, maybe two, these ones so hefty Stiles can feel them in his ears, as Scott grabs his gaze, locking their eyes together and advances even closer by simply shooting his chin forward. Yet another breath catches in Stiles’ throat.

“I’ve always wanted to feel your breath on me.” Scott wiggled his eyebrows, or there was no wiggle involved just a quick flick of the brow that melts into the haughty smirk playing on his lips as he watches Stiles’ reaction.

Stiles is trapped between moving his head away to be able to better expose his neck, submitting yet inviting and leaning in closer, pressing up, silently begging for contact. To be touched, to be allowed to touch.

Stiles doesn’t have to decide because Scott moves in again, this time he almost presses his lips to Stiles nape but pauses before he reaches it as if breeching that final line of touching lips to skin was too much.

The feeling of Scott’s breath pushing against his skin tickles warmly. There’s nothing to compare it to, it’s just hot air rhythmically gracing over sensitive skin, making that spot of skin very special. Like it’s been chosen.

Scott seems to be indulging. It’s like he’s scenting, breathing Stiles in or maybe he’s getting high of off the hormones seeping out through Stiles’ skin. It’s not impossible that Scott is tripping right now. Stiles wonders what Scott smells in him; maybe it’s the tangy smell of arousal -Stiles’ own sweet nectar, something akin to the scent of dandelions- or maybe it’s hurried blood, metallic and salty.

“It’s there, trapped right behind your lips.” Scott declares, his mouth a mere inch away from Stiles’ neck “—Release it.” He demands huskily with a nudge of his nose against Stiles’ jugular.

Stiles’ breath stutters. He’s sure Scott can hear his heart using the breastbone as a drum like some insane speedmetal performer, because to Stiles it feels as if he’s had an energy drink too many.

“Want me to take your breath away?” Scott breathes with a deliberate push of hot air against Stiles’ ear and he moans tilting his chin to expose even more neck to his Alpha. His skin shivers under Scott’s hot, confident mouth, it’s like a ripple effect that slides across his whole body and leaves a coarse trail of goosebumps in its wake.

The fluorescent lighting above them buzzes, blinking with a fizzling sound. Had he been any more coherent he would have been reminded of the mosquito zapper his dad bought the summer before last, a few weeks before Scott got bitten. They had barbequed, Stiles, his dad, Scott and Mrs. McCall. The Sheriff and Mrs. McCall had had beer, Scott and Stiles had resorted to cola and then snuck a beer each behind their parents’ backs. As per usual, it had been Stiles’ brilliant idea to fill the empty cola cans with the beer that way they could drink in front of the none-the-wiser adults. The four had sat there, in the yard, until far into the night, talking, laughing and listening to the occasional telltale buzz of the bug zapper.

But Stiles doesn’t recall the zapper because he’s too busy with the heat stirring throughout his body; Scott’s hand against his skin burns with it as if it’s radiating the waves coursing through Stiles’ body to pool in the pit of his abdomen. Scott’s words and that hot puff against his ear is what throws him over the edge, it’s like a current and before he knows it he tries to buck his hips toward Scott, to press himself up into Scott’s chest and mould himself against his body.

But Scott stops him -there is no room for movement- that hand on Stiles’ side clutches tighter and holds him still. Before Stiles knows it he keens; low, frustrated and wanton. A part of him hates the sound, wants it to burn like something foul and acidic on his tongue but it doesn’t.

Scott brings it out of him and he can’t help but freely allowing it to go.

Scott watches him and the feeling Stiles experiences when Scott watches like that –with blood red Alpha eyes glowing like obscene Christmas lights- resembles the one you get when someone’s undressing you with their eyes, only more intense; it’s like having your flesh peeled away, leaving you stripped to the bone…. It’s uncomfortable, it’s primal, like a carnal execution only an Alpha could find satisfactory…

Stiles thinks it’s insanely hot –perhaps he should be concerned with the psychological impact of that- and wonders how his heart can manage beating even faster, it should have stopped beating altogether, considering all his blood is definitely going elsewhere.

“…You have a thing for this, Stiles? Being controlled.” Scott teases. The words fall from his lips, drops like weights on Stiles’ heart; droplets of a warm liquid seeping on to –into- the organ, coiling around it, heating it up. As if it wasn’t smouldering already.

“It’s not being controlled” Stiles pants “It’s—!” He gasps and arches as Scott pointedly presses a thumb into his side, right under the ribs. It doesn’t hurt much but he arches away from the intruding digit anyway, curves his body closer to Scott’s chest at the same time he realizes the move was intended.

He responded just the way Scott wanted him to.

“Possessive behaviour.” Scott supplies evenly, releasing the pressure of his thumb and rubbing it in soothing circles over the sore spot. “You like having someone show you who you belong to.” He continues with added poise “You like being dominated. Submitting to an Alpha.”

Stiles pants again. Once. Twice. As Scott moves his hips forward a couple of times, gently gracing Stiles’. Stiles whines and Scott smirks to the noise, rutting lightly and with a sideways sweeping motion makes the bulge forming in his pants undeniable. “You feel that, Stiles?” he whispers haughtily pressing the bulge right into Stiles’ thigh “That’s all you.”

Stiles clenches his eyes shut and bites his lip to keep from being overwhelmed by it all. The feeling of Scott’s hardness through the denim of their jeans is… he doesn’t know what it is but he wants more; less jeans more access to the hardness to be précis, and he never thought he’d curse his favourite pair but he does.

How did the nightmare of showing up to school without pants on suddenly become a much desired dream? Wet dreams didn’t usually start out as nightmares. Though, that would be an awesome way for the brain to apologize. Apology accepted.

Scott finally lets his large hand leave the ever-present perch on the small of Stiles’ back and for a second Stiles fears that without the support of it he’s going to fall but it isn’t taken away, it just moves.

Scott buoyantly ghosts his hand over Stiles’ abdomen, palming the hot skin before slipping lower and gracing the hem of the jeans. Scott sticks his thumb down the waistband but leaves it at that, dragging his thumb from side to side, hipbone to hipbone, tugging at the strap just a little and releasing some of the heat from the scorching skin trapped behind the denim.

But it’s not nearly enough and Stiles keens again.

Finally, Scott lips are on his once more. Harder this time, nipping at his lower lip insisting on being granted entrance and Stiles allows it without hesitation.

Then Scott’s gone. Backing away from him and Stiles’ legs do buckle under him as he falls to the floor. It’s more graceful than it should it, like a demolition vs. a crumbling; they’re technically the same thin; a structure coming down, but the demolition simply is more refined. Tragic yet elegant— damn it, brain!

Stiles’ knees hits the floor and he sort of slumps down until he sits there, palms flat against the linoleum, muscles vibrating from exertion and breathing as if drinking air. Which you probably shouldn’t do because there are two different pipes involved, one leads to the stomach and one to the lungs; if you drink air you end up filling your stomach with oxygen and that gas has to leave one way or the other.

Scott just stands there in front of him, with his arms crossed, like a fucking sergeant or something and silently observes as Stiles puts himself back together.

His mouth taste like Scott. He’s never tasted another person quite like this before and Stiles thinks it’s somewhat bizarre that the joining of oral orifices designed for intake and transport of food is such an enthralling romantic and seductive gesture. His bottom lip stings so much from where Scott had nipped it and sucked at it that Stiles wonder if it will bruise, a precisely shaped bruise for his dad to ask questions about later.

Somewhere above him Scott clears his throat and Stiles reacts quicker than he’d like to admit –damn it that Alpha has him whipped into shape- raising his head towards the sound.

“…And that is why this is a punishment.” Scott announces evenly, giving Stiles an almost parental look but he can’t quite hide the uncomfortable expression born from the bulge stuck in his tight pants.

Stiles shakes, quivers is more like it actually, as Scott leans down over him and moves in ‘til his mouth is right next to Stiles’ ear and whispers decisively “The first time I take you, Stiles, it won’t be up against a wall in the nurse’s office.”

Stiles’ grinning wit reawakens immediately, jumping out of bed fresh and ready for a new day of wisecracking. “…Oh, planning a romantic get-away, are you?” He cracks, tilting his head for added droll and Scott pulls back crossing his arms over his chest and snorts, rolling his eyes to a poster of the human skeleton as if telling it _‘look a this idiot over here’._

“Just _eat_ something!” He commands with a smile that twitches at the corners.

“Do you have anything to offer?”

Scott’s eyebrow shoots up and the smile grows wide and proud “…Sausage.” He suggests with a barely contained snort.

Stiles blinks a few times in rapid succession then starts bubbling with laughter. Scott can’t hold it back much longer before bursting into raucous laughter along with him and soon they’re both doubled over on the floor in breathless hysterics… which is rather uncomfortable if you’re standing at attention.

 

**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> Right now I’m wondering how many of you recall the Bratwurst. ;)   
> Yes, it’s a double innuendo, a BJ allusion hidden as a Bratwurst joke. Anton Chekhov said: If a pistol appears in a story sooner or later if will be fired. …Well, this is Teen Wolf if a Bratwurst appear in a fanfic it will get joked about ;p  
> Sorry it’s not more graphic, maybe I’ll write a more graphic version later on if I can find the right inspiration.


End file.
